


The little bits

by GalekhXigisi



Series: Menstrual fics [19]
Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018)
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Angst, April O'Neil (TMNT) Has ADHD, Autism, Autistic Donatello (TMNT), Blood, Donatello (TMNT) Is Albino, Donatello (TMNT) Needs a Hug, Grooming, Hand Flapping, Hand Flaps, Hurt No Comfort, Insecure Donatello (TMNT), Its like my only coping mechanism okay, Major Character Injury, Menstruation, Michelangelo (TMNT) Has ADHD, Misgendering, Muteness, Overstimulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Sensory Overload, Special Interests, Stimming, Trans April O'Neil (TMNT), Trans Donatello (TMNT), dont act like it didn't fucking happen, in an angsty way, meltdowns, ms oneil loves her three kids Donnie April and Mikey, softshell donnie for the ANGST babie, stop acting like it didn't happen, unintentional misgendering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: A few snippets of Donnie angst and a few ways the little family helps settle it.
Series: Menstrual fics [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559251
Comments: 18
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

The effects are there, not that the child wants to admit it. His throat feels tight as he peers at the mirror, eyes still wet and bottom lip wobbling as he does his best to hold it all together. His hands flap rather unhappily. He’s struggling to hold in the sobs that threaten to plague him, burning at his throat. 

It wasn’t anyone’s fault, seriously, just an assortment of mistakes that had lead Donnie to falling down one of the shafts in the sewers. It wasn’t uncommon, given how many there were. He was rarely ever the one to fall, though, usually being Mikey or Raph, both of whom knew how to withstand it built to withstand more than a few hits. 

But Donnie wasn’t. Donnie wasn’t made to withstand hundreds of hits like the other two. Well, he isn’t built like Leo, either, who certainly has taken more than just a few hits within his lifetime. 

It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own, he reasons with himself as his hands unhappily flail. 

He had been with his brothers, held within the living room. Mikey has sat in the very front, a bit too short to see over Leo while Raoh sat perched beside their dad’s chair. Donnie had kept to the back, away from them and away from the television. It was always too loud, especially when his brothers became too loud, which would always be accented by their father’s words to study the movements from the man on television. While Donnie liked the man, it had blurred over after years of the same few films on loop. He could recite every word (not that he would say them allowed) without any form of falter. But that had not meant he had ever managed to actually retain any information. 

This was a new movie, though. One that was louder and had noises that were too high and made his chest hurt with a panic he didn’t understand. His throat had started to hurt and his hands cupped over his ears. Any whines or whimpers that he made were covered by the screen, despite Splinter’s fine-tuned hearing. The young turtle still had yet to utter a singular word to his family, despite his other sibling speaking just fine. No one knew what his voice sounded like, not even his new friend, April, who was fine with talking enough for the both of them and managed to  _ not _ grate his ears the way most other noises would. 

His panic overwhelmed him in a way it has done so many times before, forcing the young turtle to stand up and wander out of the room, cupping his ears tightly. He didn’t know where he was going to but he didn’t want to be anywhere near the loud noise. His eyes burnt with the flush of unshed tears and he tried his best to blink them away, letting out a quiet whimper as he starts to run. Little feet patter against slick concrete. Donnie doesn’t mind it, thankful for the rocks that dig into his feet, helping center himself despite the pain. 

He runs until he makes a mistake. His eyes already made things so blurry and with the harsh lack of light and Donnie’s already bad sense of direction, well, when he falls, he can’t help but try to hold onto himself and hope for the best. He can’t even grab at the ladder on the other side of the wall, too small and not having enough muscle to catch himself without getting far more hurt than anything. Maybe Raph could, but the string-bean of a child certainly couldn’t. 

He lands with a loud clunk and he can hear it before he feels it. The soft crack that splits his ears, which are already filled with too much noise thanks to the water that streams through the tunnels, too loud and hurting his head. However, the pain that explodes within him earns a cry that echoes, despite how quiet it is. 

He blacks out, but the instant that the small turtle wakes up, Donnie can feel himself running on an adrenaline high that does nothing but fuel the ache. He irritates the injury far more than anything as he forces himself to find the ladder. He wheezes through the sobs that he forces down into silence. 

Everything blurs together as he forces himself to find his way home, voice silent and forgotten. He listens for the too-loud television that’s miraculously still playing. When he does return home, swiping at the blood that dribbles down his back, he realizes that if anyone has noticed he had been gone, they had made no movement to do anything about it. They’re all still absorbed in the movie, his three siblings screaming as they run around the room, feet pattering as they screech and chase each other, Leo and Mikey tackling Raph to the ground with a  _ thunk _ that makes Donnie involuntarily flinch. 

He retreats to his room, not minding the curtain. It’s how the softshell turtle finds himself now, using wet paper towels to clean the wound after dirtying up a hefty amount of towels to soak up the blood. It’s only just stopped bleeding. It hurts to contort to clean it, but he can’t let the wound get infected, no. instead, he does everything in his power to clean it while ignoring the way pain shoots through his body, protesting every single movement. 

He dabs it dry, cleaning it more thoroughly despite the pain that continues on. He isn’t entirely sure what to do, but he knows that he can’t just leave it right as is, instead, moving to the cabinet that he keeps a few of his experiments in. Well, medical experiments, one of which includes a series of anti-biotics he and Splinter have been working on, though most of it is Donnie taking on a hobby out of curiosity. They’ve all helped out, just like when Leo, Raph, and Mikey all got sick the year before thanks to eating something bad. 

Donnie only partially knows how to fix a shell because it’s had to be done before. Donnie’s shell had split more than just a few times thanks to how sensitive his body is, but it’s never been something so horrid. Sure, he has jagged bits from past experience around the edges, but this is something  _ entirely new. _

He gets the fiber-glass and glue and whatever else he can think of to fix it and gets to work. 


	2. Chapter 2

No one finds out about the injury for a few days. Donnie may be young, but he is tactical in a sense that he has no right to be. No, he should have never been able to avoid his family so easily, but he was able to thanks to years of learning how to flee when things got too loud and how to get his brothers to go away without hurting their feelings too much. He’s thankful for that handy little trick a lot more than he has any right to be. 

But with three rowdy six to eight-year-olds and a rat who is still somewhat new at being a father, well, accidents were bound to happen when the middle child got thrown into the fray of things, especially during training with wooden weapons that weren’t made to hurt but still managed to leave bruises and splinters and even cuts at times, times like when Mikey or Leo would get overexcited and hit too hard or Raph would overestimate his strength. 

And Donnie doesn’t know how it happens. He’s wearing one of Splinter’s big shirts, nothing abnormal. It’s an old shirt that he hasn’t worn because he hated the fabric but Donnie adored the silk and the purple tone to it far more than he can express with words. His brothers no longer asked questions when they found Donnie decked out in the comforting fabric, finding him in it more often than not, snuggled up with it and even using it as a blanket instead of actually using a blanket of some kind, even if he woke up freezing multiple times. He always thinks it’s worth it for the sake of comfort and his siblings would never understand just how much he adored the shirt. 

However, good things came to an end when Splinter paired them together. First, Raph and Leo would be a pair fighting in the middle of the circle while Donnie and Mikey would walk along the outskirts. The target wasn’t really official, nor the actual objective, but their fahter had said whoever was the last standing wins. It was a bit of a shock when Mikey and Donnie both came out victorious thanks to Raph not entirely understanding the objective. THe next round, the purple and orange-coded turtles stood in the middle, just a few inches away from touching shell to shell. Mikey was still learning boundaries while Donnie was living on the high of his win, too absorbed in the soft glee of their father  _ almost _ congratulating them to actually notice just how much his shell was aching nor how much he was straining the injury. 

Or, well, that’s what he  _ started _ thinking, at least until he no longer had the chance to. 

Of course, his little solace and happiness aimed towards the mini victory couldn’t last long. Leo and Raph had both moved in closer and Raph had given Mikey a shove that was a bit too hard and caused him to slam into Donnie. 

Donnie couldn’t think as he took his next few actions. A scream ripped from his throat and he ran on instincts, taking a step to turn and grabbing ahold of a wide-eyed turtle, hands gripping around his wrist and moving to slam him without a thought to it. He couldn’t way what was running through his head as he did it, just a fear so deep within him that he couldn’t breathe, slamming the other down so hard that Mikey immediately loses the breath from his lungs, gasping for air immediately. 

As soon as Donnie lets go of the other, he realizes what he’s done, hands coming up to his mouth as he pants, gasping for air himself through the panic that overtakes him. His mind it filled with static and he can barely tell that the sharp whining is coming from him and  _ not _ Mikey, who seems to be composing himself so much quicker than the other turtle. Donnie’s hands flap with his panic and he can feel tears falling down his cheeks at the pain that’s exploding through his back and biting at his lungs. 

_ “Purple,” _ their father snaps. 

Instead of grabbing his attention as it had been intended to do, it causes the boy to duck, squatting down. His arms come up over his head, shielding himself as he cowers at the rat’s sharp voice. His sobs are distinguishable and it’s easy to tell that whatever is going on is  _ painful, _ so much so that the boy can’t even handle it. 

Raph says, “He’s bleedin’, Pa!” 

“Orange,” Splinter asks, his tone confused as he says it. Had Donnie truly slammed him down that hard? Had there been internal bleeding or perhaps even some form of dislocation or- 

“No, Donnie!” 

_ Donnie _ was bleeding? Donnie hadn’t even been hit but a few times the round before, having been strategic and playing coy with the other two turtles who hadn’t exactly understood everything, Mikey playing along until the two were victorious. However, as he turns to see what Raph is talking about, it’s easy to see the blood that coats the red shirt, staining it red and puddling below the boy as he cowers, still sobbing. 

He can’t withhold his shock as he hears Donnie’s voice for the first time, a chorus of, “I’m sorry,” playing on loop. His voice is high, higher than the other three boys’ own, even since puberty has yet to set in on all of them. His voice is barely above a whisper and he’s choking on sobs that shake his whole body and make the injuries that much worse. The small turtle has shut his eyes so tight that he has to be seeing stars behind those lids. The sobs that wrack his small frame only make the blood come that much quicker and his words become unintelligible through how hard he’s crying. 

Mikey seems to be regaining his breath, though, looking relatively fine despite his brother’s panic and bleeding. He’s a little pale and out of breath, sure, but Leo is talking to him and helping him calm down. 

The same cannot be said for Purple, the soft-shelled turtle digging nails into his skin and scraping at it, drawing blood without meaning to. It makes Splinter sharpen, commanding Raph, “Red, take Orange and Blue out of here,  _ now,” _ without hesitation. He doesn’t want the three to see what’s about to happen, to watch their brother break into a million pieces or see the injury that is certainly there and pestering the boy right now. 

The largest of the turtles immediately nods and helps pick Mikey up. Leo glances back at his twin but reluctantly follows the two while biting his lip, distress clear as he goes. He can feel the same concern for the purple-coded turtle in his own chest as he moves forward, wrapping his arms around the other’s wrists in an attempt to pull him away. 

He’s never known what to do in moments like these. They keep  _ happening. _ Sure, Splinter has gotten better at dealing with those moments where things are about the crash and they have to be de-escalated, but that doesn’t mean the panic he always sees doesn’t phase him and make his chest pang painfully with a level of hurt he doesn’t actually have the vocabulary to explain. Maybe Donnie might, but the father doesn’t as he tries to get the other to stop clawing at his skin, trying to tell him that things will be okay. He even uses Donatello’s real  _ name. _

But that only makes things worse, worse to the point that the point passes out, still sobbing apologies. It isn’t the first time it’s happened and it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t mean that Splinter doesn’t want to sob at seeing it. He Can still hear the gentle whimpers in his sleep as he wheezes through sleep, body letting his instincts take over for the moment. 

It gives him the chance to inspect the other’s injuries. A busted up arm that will need bandaging isn’t new, something that Donnie has scars from, but that doesn’t make it okay. There are a few clips along his shell, but when he pulls off the shirt, his stomach drops in a terror he can’t even explain at seeing the huge crack along his shell. 

It’s clear that what had just happened had only made it worse. It had been given an attempt to be fixed before, something that Splinter finds a twisted pride in at seeing the main crack mostly sewn back together with an assortment of items he’s used before, but it twists a knife in his chest, all the same. Purple had hurt himself so bad and hadn’t even attempted to come to him? He had been injured even worse because of his father’s carelessness when it had come to his health? He hadn’t even noticed such a large injury, to begin with? When had it even  _ happened? _

His stomach only drops even further at seeing the way it splinters off around the biggest crack, showing that Mikey falling back onto him as pushed it in and not only aggravated the injury, ut caused something so much worse within its presence. There’s a dip in the not-so-sturdy shell, leaking blood. 

It takes everything in Splinter not to cry at seeing it. He needs to help his son before this gets any worse. He can hold it in until he’s alone, truly. Maybe he can even check an online parenting forum for help like Purple had once suggested. 

Reluctantly, he picks up his son and carries him to their unofficial medical bay. For the time being, it’s just a spare room that’s out of the way and quiet enough that Donnie typically goes there to get away from the others. Somehow, he knows that within the future, it will officially become their medical center whether they’d like it to be or not. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Donnie wakes up, he has the urge to just begin sobbing. His muscles feel almost angry, like if they were a being, they would body slam him for whatever he had done to them. However, he doesn’t get any of that. Instead, he gets a soft hum from someone beside him. 

His eyes flicker open, making him whine despite the gentle light in the room. It hurts his head so bad that he has to bring his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. His weak whine follows the movements and Donnie can feel the cold ache that burns at his arms the same way it does the rest of his body, like he had fought all his brothers at once. Had he? That would explain why he was asleep, he supposes. 

“My apologies, my son,” comes Splinter’s voice. Involuntarily, the boy flinches at it, not expecting it. There’s a gentle huff of breath and the light is gone, most certainly ensuring it was a candle. “Are you feeling alright?” 

Donnie reaches out for Splinter’s hand, meeting it with a gentle slap. His mentor accepts the other’s touch instantly, patient as Donnie writes on his hand with a finger, too tired to sign out the letters like he normally would. He’d taught himself all of this and his family had learned to accomodate as was needed, albeit reluctantly. 

_ H - u - r - t. _

There’s a gentle chuckle. It unintentionally makes the boy tense, sounding so bitter in his ears despite the noise being affectionate. “Yes, I suppose everything would hurt after what you’ve gone through. Would you like some pain killers of some kind?” 

Donnie shakes his head  _ no, _ though he quickly realizes th other can’t see him and lets out a little noise of disapproval. His father understands it easily, used to Donnie’s noises and what they mean. Ora, at the very least, the yes and no ones. 

“You gave us all quite a fright the other day, throwing Orange around.” 

Donnie lets out another noise, a fearful whimper that has the rat huffing once more. 

“He’s fine. Incredibly worried about you, though.” He can practically see the way Splinter is running his hand through his hair. “I’m more concerned about something else, though, Purple.” 

“I’m in trouble,” comes the watery whisper. Without Donnie’s consent, tears fall down his cheeks, falling onto his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t wanna throw him. I didn’t mean to-” 

“That’s not my issue, Purple.” 

Donnie stops. His voice falls from his lips, settling in the darkness. He can’t find it in himself to say anything else. So many years of silence were broken for the sake of apologies. 

“Your shell,” he starts. 

Splinter can’t even finish his words before Donnie is sucking in a breath so deep that it hurts his lungs, making him cough. It only accents the pain that has blossomed along his body. 

“It’s alright, Purple. I am more concerned than I am angry.” 

It isn’t as reassuring as the former human wishes. 

“That injury was severe. Training you while you were hurt so mad, you could have…” His breath hitches for a moment before continuing on with, “You could have caused  _ irreversible damage.” _

“I’m  _ sorry.” _

“Please, Purple,” he says, his voice soft, “I am fine with letting you be when you have an injury, but  _ please, _ tell me if you have an injury this bad,  _ please?” _

If Donnie didn’t know better, he would say his father was crying. 

He brings his hands back up and swears he hears a broken sniffle. 

_ O - k - a - y. _

“Good.” 

Donnie nods in return. 

“I am sad to say, though, that the shirt… It was stained far too much to be recovered.” 

Donnie’s breath hitches once more. 

“So, I have gotten you a gift to replace it. Would it be alright if I replace the flame on the candle?” 

There comes an affirmative hum in reply, 

Slowly, a flicker of a flame dances across the room, lighting it up. Donnie shields his eyes as Splinter transfers it from the little match to the candle instead. He waits a moment, getting used to the light that makes his head hurt so. When he finally pulls his arm away, he’s surprised by the sight revealed to him. 

His father’s eyes are glossy, a gentle smile on his face as he holds out a jacket. It’s huge, easily going to swamp Donnie, as well as the rat. It looks too big for even Raph, which makes the turtles’ eyes light up. He sharpens with his surprise and his hands flap happily. The candle on the bedside table flickers with the gentle huffs of air that follow. He can almost ignore the bandages wrapped around his arms and midsection.  _ Almost. _

Splinter offers it out as he explains, “I’ve read that… weighted clothes can help sometimes, what with keeping things cozy and comfortable. If it’s too much, though, I can certainly return it if it doesn’t fit your tastes, though.” 

Donnie gently touches the fabric, immediately inhaling sharply as he lets out a happy little squeak. The fabric is soft, only a tad bit scratchy in the way that he adores so much on his body. It isn’t like the silk shirt, which is soft but scratchy in a way that isn’t entirely the best, but it’s certainly the perfect texture as he pulls it close to him, unable to withhold the way his hands flap excitedly in front of him, happy little noises leaving his mouth without needing to be prompted. His eyes water as he drags it up to his face, the young turtle letting out a gleeful screech at feeling it rub against his cheek. His mask was silk, sure, but  _ this _ was something else. 

The weighted fabric only aids in making his excitement grow, hand flapping turning into arm flapping and even more noises as he tries to accent just how happy he is about the gift. 

He  _ swears _ he sees a tear roll down Splinter’s cheek. 

“Your brothers helped me pick it out. The only condition for it is that you can’t wear it until you’ve fully healed, alright?” 

Donnie is only slightly deterred by that phrase, huffing softly but nodding in acceptance. 

“Once you’re up for it, Orange has been very worried about you. He and Red and Blue haven’t stopped blubbering yet. They’ve been asking about you non-stop.”

Donnie nods. He isn’t up for visitors just yet, his father knows, but once he is, he’s going to apologize to Mikey for throwing him and slamming him down so hard. 


	4. Chapter 4

Donnie liked his cut off little corner of the lair, if he were going to be honest with everyone. It was an annoyance sometimes, like when his brothers need him and have to take the long walk to his room or lab, depending on his location. But to the little turtle… To the little turtle, it is a mini paradise that means he can get away from the loud noises of life and the smells that always permeate the kitchen when Mikey decides to take on an attempt at cooking with Splinter or just a haven to get away from the loud scream of the television because, despite having amazing hearing, their shared dad still blasts the television at odd hours to the pint that more often than not, if the boy is too close, he gets overwhelmed within mere moments, sometimes even seconds if he is having a particularly bad day. Sure, he turns it down for movie nights sometimes, but Donnie can only handle so much for so long. 

So, while taking refuge in the safe haven that was the med bay, he almost forgot just how loud his siblings could be at times, especially when it was the middle of the day and he was just coming off of a hefty nap after a week and a half of almost-hibernation. It was a defense mechanism, apparently, something that both Donnie and Mikey did. Whenever they were hurt, especially bigger injuries, they would sleep for days at a time, barely resurfacing from their long naps for longer than enough time to go to the bathroom or eat. After almost two weeks of this on and off behavior made to reserve his energy to heal his body, he was bound to be overwhelmed quickly. 

It just happened so much quicker than he thought it would. 

He had spent most of his time in the near-scentless and quiet hideaway for almost two weeks now, mostly only getting visited by Splinter to ensure he ate something once he was awake enough to do so and even help him bathe whenever was possible. Donnie could still remember bits of when he was so much younger, loving the feeling of the bath but sobbing at the shower, overwhelmed by the little jets and the spray too easily, flapping his hands and having meltdowns whenever Splinter would try to get the four boys all washed up together. It had taken a long time to get Splinter to figure out the issue, apparently, and took to bathing Mikey and Donnie together while Leo and Raph would shower. Mikey liked baths more than the showers, too, while he was younger. Donnie, however, still couldn’t brave the showers without a series of hand flaps and the possibility of a meltdown coming quick. 

As soon as he gets close to the more active parts of their home, he could already hear the television. It played louder than usual and Donnie could distinctly hear the patter of Splinter’s footsteps, as well as his terrible singing from the kitchen. It was far too off key to be the theme song of the Lou Jitsu show to be anywhere near graceful, something that grates his ears far too promptly after his rude awakening from the uncomfortable throbbing of his shell. Not something new, of course, but still annoying while it was accompanied with a nightmare that he had forgotten the parameters of almost immediately outside of purple flames and purple armor, the reflection of it burning itself in his mind and the way his face had reflected in the armor, leaving him unsettled and paranoid. 

He had yet to admit that nightmare wasn’t as abnormal as it had been when he was younger, now coming once a month and putting him on edge for weeks at a time. Whenever he would finally relax, it would return. 

Donnie shook the thought out of his head, though. He almost wishes he hadn’t thanks to the too-sweet smell of whatever it was his father was cooking up in the kitchen. It had a tart smell, like a sour citrus mixed with pure sugar, made to become sweet but not succeeding thanks to a series of unfortunate measurements. He feels nauseated at the heavy scent and finds himself pattering away without a thought to ask about whether or not he could take some form of painkiller to rid him of the uncomfrotable throbbing that only increases with his near-silent footsteps. 

He finds himself at the large unofficial commons, which consists of their miniature skateboard ramp (which Donnie was still technically not allowed to use after the last time he chipped his shell on it) and whatever other assortment of knick-knacks they’ve found over the years. It’s pretty barren for the time being, meaning that Mikey and Leo had yet to be in there at the same time long enough to destroy it in their assorted messy fashion. No, but Raph and Leo are both in there, slamming wooden branches together as they yell at each other over two different sets of music. The music is loud and both differ from each other, too loud and not at all on beat with each other, making it far too hard to focus on. 

Donnie clasps his hands over his ears, regretting leaving his little corner. His nails unintentionally dig into the fabric of mask, which is the only thing to damper the miniature assault to his scalp. Within his momentary fumble, his eyes squeeze shut as he moves, already aware of the pathway to his lab where he knows the soft purple lights and gentle hum of his limited machines will calm him. Before he gets the chance to get there, though, he quite literally runs into Mikey, the two turtles slamming together and Mikey somehow knocking the other over, the two falling in a pile of limbs on the ground. Donnie doesn’t suppress the whimper at the touch, nor the soft yelp at falling to the ground with such a harsh injury. Yes, his shell was significantly healed compared to two weeks ago, but that did not mean it wasn’t still sensitive. 

Mikey pulls away instantly, eyes wide and full of surprise. Donnie can just barely manage to move into a sitting position, sitting with his legs folded beneath him and hands moving away to frantically flap at his sides, trying to get the icky feeling within him to be shooed away one way or another. 

“Donnie,” Mikey says in a whisper, almost confused. 

Red and blue snap up to meet soft blue eyes, the two taking a moment to just breathe as the panic falters. Donnie almost wants to put his hands back to his ears, but, for the very moment, he needs to get out the pent up energy centered around his limbs. He barely notices how quiet it’s gotten since he’s started his way away from his father and other to brothers. However, it’s very apparent when Mikey begins to talk once more, his voice so soft, barely above a whisper in its reassuring tone that he always does when he knows things are overwhelming and he needs to ask before touching Donnie or talking too much. 

“Is it okay to talk or do you want me to lip it?” 

Donnie holds up one finger, giving him the okay to just talk. It’s a bit easier without the distractions of the other three and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to read lips with the tears that burn his eyes and blur his vision. 

“Okay, okay, great. Was it too loud for you? Is that what’s wrong?” 

He nods in reply, hands moving to get the word _ lab _ put out there before the other says anything. He wants to get to his lab, to be able to feel the click of his keyboard beneath his fingers and hear that satisfying noise. 

“You want to go to your lab?” 

Donnie nods in reply, already fumbling on his way to stand up. Mikey is immediately following after him, silent as he does so. He darts off for a moment once they get near his lab and Donnie swears he’s going to stay gone (which Donnie really didn’t want right now), but the younger turtle returns with both of his arms full of blankets, the scentless ones that are weighted because Donnie hates the smell of the drier sheets his brothers use and needs the pressure of the blankets sometimes. 

Everything blurs together once he gets to the lab, the two devolving into their own things. Donnie’s still reeling from his injuries so what he can do is rather limited, as well as ho long he can stay up while, apparently, Mikey wasn’t full of as much energy as normal. He silently guesses Splinter finally put him on that off-brand Adderal he had been mindlessly chattering on about while he helped Donnie get to sleep the other night. 

Eventually, he ends up cocooned with Mikey in the pile of blankets, the older of the to listening intently as Mikey read the Jupiter Jim comic aloud to him in those funny voices he’s perfected after years of having limited access to entertainment. Donnie likes the differentiated tones, his head pressed to Mikey’s shoulder, both on their plastroms with the accumulation of blankets and air conditioning blowing on them so they don’t get too hot. He yawns quietly, relaxing easily beside his brother with a sleepy little nestle against the other. His eyes close, letting the box turtle’s voice lull him into a peaceful sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter about this particular shell injury. I'm really looking forward to talking about his voice and the fact that he's trans within the next few chapters.


	5. Chapter 5

Donnie was slowly beginning to talk to himself. It was just little spurts of sentences that make him happily perk up at realizing that he had even said it, despite the harsh stutter and way his voice sounded so much higher pitched than even his brothers’ own voices, despite the three still just being kids and having yet to face puberty. His voice is more like one of April’s old friends from school, the girl that she had a couple of videos from school with before the girl had moved out of New York to live a few states away. Donnie silently wishes he could have met her, maybe even for the sake of figuring out what about her had made April so interested in being her friend. He wasn’t entirely sure. 

However, he did not think that the big unveiling of his voice would be because he was screaming, his throat burning through his sleep. He could feel the fire blazing along his skin, the bars of the cage closing in around him thanks to the purple flames that slowly began to melt them. Molten metal dripped onto his skin, burning it. The pain didn’t stop as he screamed that much louder, begging for help as he folded in on himself, arms wrapping tightly around his body in an attempt to make himself smaller, despite the pain that burns through him from being thrown before. 

The full body of armor slams forward, metal claws that blaze hot against his flesh drawing blood as their grip tightens, slamming his body against the melting cage walls. He’’s thrown back so violently, that he loses his breath, waiting for the inevitable collapse of his lungs when he hits the ground. The world around him looks like it’s fading into darkness before his eyes open up, the feeling of falling still there. 

His body slams forward, finally, the boy awake as pants through the panic. Yes, his nightmares were bad and he’d bottled them more often than not, but  _ never _ had they hurt so much, nor had they caused his mind to mush so much. 

His whole body burns lowly like he had been fighting something genuinely, and he almost thinks he was if the look his dad is giving him is any indicator. He involuntarily flinches away from the other, arms coming up to shield himself as he presses his back into the corner of his walls, trapped in a small spot with nowhere to go. 

_ “Purple,” _ his father says, earning his attention, “You are safe now, my child.” 

Donnie looks up,  _ finally, _ and feels himself blanch. It’s like seeing something from a new perspective, his whole family standing there, all looking scared and hurt. They’re still in their pajamas, Mikey even only wearing a singular sock and his shirt crumpled up around his midsection. They’re all messes, every single one of the four in front of him. 

“I - I’m sorry,” he sobs out, his hands shaking as he figures out that  _ he _ was the one to wake them up. 

It wasn’t hard to spot their surprise there, either, if he’s being honest. The last time he had spoken, it had been apologies, too. Apologies for slamming Mikey so harshly, even if it was on the circular training mat. Everything else that followed had been attempted to be discarded. “I’m sorry. I’m okay, I’m you. Y - Y - you all can go back to sl - leep.” His voice hitches as he shakes his arms out in front of them, gestures wide and apologetic. His throat hurt from the screaming and the wide movements he’s doing now only aid in making the tremor and pains all that much worse. 

_ “Donnie,” _ Raph says in a whisper, looking about ready to cry while Mikey seems to be buzzing and Leo looks unsure of how to respond. “We ain’t leaving you,” Raph says as he moves forward, perching on the edge of Donnie’s bed. Surprisingly, it makes him relax. “You’re our brother and you had a nightmare. We ain’t leavin’ you alone until you’re all good and we know it for a fact.” 

“I’m  _ fine,” _ he whimpers but knows it’s not something to fight over as he crawls out from his corner, moving to wrap his arms around the larger turtle with no hesitation. The shaking is still violent as can be, despite Raph holding onto him tightly. Reluctantly, he settles his head on the other’s shoulder, ducking his view away from the wall and shutting his eyes as the silent sobs leave his mouth and tears flow. 

His siblings and father all hover for a moment before Raph half-heartedly shoos them all away, all for the purpose of knowingly putting it on one of those mature channels that are 99% infomercials that Donnie absolutely  _ adores _ with all his being because he loves finding out how things work. 

Raph sits as a solid while Donnie cries against him, knowing how to respond thanks to Mikey, who gets nightmares commonly, albeit his much more revolving around things on television than Donnie’s imaginary angry nightmare evil armor. He doesn’t mind it all that much, though, relaxing against the other and just letting himself finally cry about the reoccurring terror. It’s never gotten this bad, never to the point where his face pales because he can’t breathe or his mind slams to a halt or he literally  _ screams. _ Sure, he’s whimpered and whined and woken himself up that way, but the scream he let out today? 

Raph almost shudders at the reminder of the noise as he holds his brother. It wasn’t just one scream, no, it was multiple that Raph hadn’t even  _ recognized. _ He’d woken up so violently to the first one, having been the closest one to the other’s room since he wanted a large room. He had never expected to hear the blood-curdling screeches ever within his life, nor the boy begging for help so avidly, crying and barely able to inhale before he had even woken up at all. 

And now it was downright painful to watch him fall to pieces. The soft-shelled turtle still clings so tightly, breathing uneven and body violently wracking. He feels so helpless, despite his hand gently rubbing across his back the way he would with Leo when he was upset or the soft reassurances like he would with Mikey whenever he needed it. 

Because Raph rarely ever needed to comfort Donnie outside of the few meltdowns he’s witnessed (and retained) over the last few years, of course. It was always Master Splinter who did so, who brought Donnie down from his panic because Donnie hated being upset in front of people and would go to such great lengths to avoid it that it was almost comical if not for the way it breaks him now to see Donnie finally let a portion of those emotions out. 

(Donnie never admits that the dreams don’t get better after that, though he learns to suppress the cries and screams by soundproofing his room. He also doesn’t tell them about the purple bo in his dreams that whispers of his inevitable defeat, deciding that he’s tired of his dreams and begins to create his own weapon and train with it. He doesn’t know what it’s all leading up to, but he never utters a word to Master Splinter whatsoever out of fear that saying something makes it real, makes it official. He doesn’t want to be medicated like that one Lou Jitsu movie were a kid whose situation fit Donnie’s a little too well had to be medicated for nightmares and became the villain because of it. 

If only anyone ever noticed just how much he had began to bottle, perhaps Donnie would not have had to turn to machines for his needs to talk.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy hints and implications that there were nightmares involving their destiny and that the weapons were part of it was included. Since Donnie's Bo was never actually used in canon (as to where I'm currently at), I decided to give a reason why. 
> 
> All the kids are getting their own assortment of dreams about Shredder/the mystic weapons, theirs are just different and a lot more tame. I feel like the mystic Bo would have had a lot to do with canon if they had included it but since they didn't, I'm saying it had mind powers because why the fuck not? 
> 
> also short chapter bc my computer is gonna fuckin die smh


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splinter is written different in this chapter. He's kind of a bitch, tbh. But that's dads for you, I guess.

Donnie can’t help as frustration flows through him. His experiments today had all gone pitifully sour after Raph had knocked over more than just a few of them within his pursuit to capture Leo for taking the last cookie. It had taken Mikey and Splinter both restraining him to prevent the boy from having a meltdown at his lab being destroyed. His frustration hadn’t stopped at the realization of just how many machines required fixing or even rebuilding because of it. 

It hadn’t helped that the last of the flavorless juice he loved so much had been spilled by Splinter only half an hour later. Of course, that would never help and he had to water down the orange juice Mikey offered him with a glare at his orange-tinted mixture. He hated every single sip of it and ended up just chugging it for the sake of not having to drink it any longer than he had to and settled on drinking water with a frown. It wasn’t that he disliked water, he just usually ended up getting most of his calories for the day through hefty amounts of juice and other flavorless sustenance. 

The days’ frustration continues on as his first attempt at an official battle shell (not that he hadn’t made a hefty amount before, this one just so happened to be the first one that mattered) got battered within the first few hits, making the boy let out a frustrated yell before chucking the device down one of the many tunnels. His frustration hadn’t ended when it hadn’t gotten that far, nor had it even done that much damage like Leo’s hit to the faux carapace had. He stomps his feet with the never-ending flow of anger before he begrudgingly makes his way back to the lair. 

And, unfortunately for the young turtle, his frustration isn’t going to end any time soon as they get back to training. No, of  _ course, _ it isn’t, because he had the worst turtle luck of the four brothers. It makes his stomach knot and twist with the known reminder that the day is going to refuse to get any better whether he wants it to. 

In fact, it only gets worse as he finds his father holding him up by the waist with his tail, one of the remaining still still able to be properly picked up by the appendage. Mikey was the other, given that Raph was the largest of them and Leo was starting to get more of a shape to him as he (rather reluctantly) took to training more seriously. Still, he can’t withhold the way he grinds his teeth as his father berates him for getting caught during their improvised ninja training. 

“I’m  _ albino,” _ the boy finds himself snapping at the adult, his voice high with the strain of emotion. They had been perfecting their ability to blend in with their surroundings and sneak around. Given that they were currently in a rather well-lit area and Donnie’s body was much more reflective than the darker-patterned brothers, he had been set up to fail, despite all of his attempts not to be and perfected silence. 

He had been trying to talk more nowadays, happy to see April’s over-enthusiastic reaction to hearing her friend finally talking to her. He could ramble on for a bit and usually would before snapping back into his easy silence, not caring all that much for small talk or whatever else. It was still filled with the occasional stutter and he would stumble over his words when he got too excited or anything of that sort. Even being filled with emotions made it that much harder to get what he wanted to say out. 

_ “So,” _ his father asks with just as snappy of a tone, if not more so. 

“I - I don’t  _ blend _ like th - they - like they do!” He gestures at the hiding spots the other three were in. 

“Then you will overcome it in your own time.” 

And that’s when the small turtle finally snaps, letting out a frustrated scream and grabbing at his mask, pulling on the fabric. He pulls it off, tossing it away from him and the prototype goggles he’s been working on with them, the red and blue lenses popping out with his throw but not breaking, thankfully. He’s tired of hearing about the hurdles he’ll have to jump over within his lifetime. Leo’s anxiety was different than this, and so was Raph’s own anxiety. Donnie wasn’t struggling with  _ anxiety, _ he wasn’t struggling with being autistic, he wasn’t struggling with his shell, either. He’s been told he needs to get over them so many times before already. He’s been told that the nightmares aren’t real and nothing to worry about (but Donnie knows different, not that he voices that). He’s been told that his autism is only an obsticle if he lets it be. He’s been told that his shell is a problem for him to fix. He’s been told so many different things, told what’s  _ wrong with him. _

So, of fucking  _ course, _ he is going to snap at one point. And today is that point. 

He’s tired of being told that his disabilities are the issue. He  _ knows _ how to handle when he’s getting close to a meltdown! He’s done extensive research on coping mechanisms and keeps more than just afew fidget toys on him as often as he can and has even managed to swindle all three of his brothers into keeping something of that sort on them all for when they need it. Mikey’s ADHD wasn’t treated like this, after all! He could always fixate on his training, becoming so focused on the task and more than just a bit eager to please their father. 

Donnie wanted to make his dad happy, too! He had done everything within his power to be acknowledged by the old rat, even going to the lengths to practically breaking his own back to just impress him. It was limited, keeping varying results and never equating to what he wanted. More often than not, he even got fussed at, whether it be for a failed experiment or a mess he had unintentionally made or whatever the Hell else it was at the time. He couldn’t help but feel like he was being singled out from his siblings, especially after noticing just how often Donnie was the first to be picked off the metaphorical playing field. 

“Stop say - saying that,” he yells, his hands balled and making at his sides as he speaks. “It’s not just an issue you can act - t like I can wash away with a showe - shower!” He pries himself from the tail, falling to the ground with a  _ thunk _ and feeling his shell rattle, despite how far he was from any actual point to be dangerous. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less. “I can’t help it! I’m not  _ like them!” _ He stumbles his way up to stand, glaring at the blurry figure that was his father, just barely able to make him out and differ him from his siblings emerging from their hiding spots thanks to having the object permeance of a baby. 

“You are throwing a tantrum, Purple,” Splinter bluntly replies. 

And Donnie  _ isn’t. _ He knows he isn’t because if he were throwing a tantrum, he would have trashed the room and would still be screaming, most likely unintelligible noises as he tried to vent his frustrations. No, he was pointing out that this wasn’t the way to handle the issue on hand and he’s tired of his father acting like the way to handle it is to throw Donnie to the side and have him figure it out on his own. 

“I’m  _ not!” _

“You are,” he snaps back. “Now, go to your room until you can calm down and act civilized like your brothers.” 

_ “Why?” _

“Because you are throwing a tantrum for no reason.” 

Donnie lets out a soft huff that’s strained by a whine, not even bothering to verbally reply as he moves away from the group, hands balled into fists at his side the whole time. He feels sick to his stomach with the anger that billows inside of him. 

He wishes he had an actual door so he could slam it instead of a curtain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So, no one is talking about the fact that Splinter still GROOMED the turtles as they grew up so here is the bitching I am giving to vent my frustrations to it while I listen to Art Is Dead on loop. 
> 
> Now, this may seem like I'm writing him off as a bitch, but I'm NOT!! Okay, now, hear me out! Donnie and Splinter have a barrier in canon, one where you can tell Donnie was not supported by Splinter in the way he should have been. No one really talks about it so I'm bitching about it in fanfic notes. Mature, I know, shut up. 
> 
> He is not entirely being a cunt here. Well, he is but with reason. He doesn't entirely know how to handle Donnie's "tantrums" because (probably out of his own negligence, idfk), he hasn't fucking figured out how NOT to be an ableist, despite two of his kids being mentally disabled in some way or another. Also, giving Raph and Leo both anxiety was fuckin mint. 
> 
> Idk, I'm kind of just angry right now so the next chapter is going to be about the fractured relationship this fight leaves and give more background to Donnie's need to be validated by parental figures.


	7. Chapter 7

Donnie sighs softly as he flops down on his bed. The fight with his father had put a damper on the whole family’s collective mood, he thinks. It’s mostly been Donnie avoiding all of them as consistently as he can hile his father avoids him in return. His silence isn’t anything new, of course, but it almost feels deafening now as he sits in his room, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breathing. Without his consent, his heart hammers at his chest, still reeling from the fight despite it having been almost an emotionally hefty two weeks ago. 

Within the two weeks he’s had to himself, he’s taken on a few projects. Improving his glasses, recreating his battle shell with more upgrades and such, even improving his tech Bo with little reluctancy. He has yet to show his father his self-made weapon and he doesn’t plan on doing such any time soon, thanks to their last fight. His stomach twists and turns in disgust, both at himself and Splinter. 

He’s taken it upon himself to do research and figure out what any of the fight had meant.  _ Ableism _ had been the word he found for it. Rather passive-aggressively, he had printed out the definition and slid it under his dad’s door. He had no idea if the rat had read it or not, but he wasn’t about to ask, the idea of it making his chest feel tight. He didn’t want to confront the fear that his dad didn't actually read it, didn’t care enough  _ to _ read it. If he ever faced that idea, got confirmation to it?... Well, he wasn’t sure how he would handle it, if he would even actually be able to in the first place. 

It wasn’t hard to see the visible difference between them. Donnie’s pale body, mostly yellow with patches of purple over his carapace and shoulders, more mimicking freckles than anything else. Well, except for over his eye, the one section turning red to blue but the purple blended perfectly with the yellow, such an odd surprise on him, even as he grew up with abnormality. He had never minded it, never finding it in him to actually care about it until the most recent events, which had made his mind topple on its head and his world shift before him. Maybe the abnormality wasn’t as gracefully beautiful as his brothers had said it to be? Maybe it was all just the issue his father had begun to call it. 

He finds himself decked in the thick hoodie more often than not nowadays. He knows it isn’t a permanent fix, given the fear that it will interfere with his battle shell more than it already had. Sure, he could put it over it, but it meant anything within it was hard to get to and if he needed anything in the heat of the moment, it wouldn’t work out very well in his favor. Within the few situations he had run just to see if it would work out well enough or not, not a single one of them has ended on positive notes. He’s been trying his best to find good alternatives to hold the shell in place that wouldn’t hurt so terribly to be pulled off of him if needed. He doesn’t find anything that lets them hook properly. 

He sighs once more, the noise soft as he settles on his bed. There’s a gentle knock, one he could honestly say he’s been waiting for for a while now. His dad’s voice chimes through, requesting, “Purple, may I come in?” 

“Yeah,” he replies in a soft tone, despite the damper it immediately puts on his mood altogether. He’s just thankful that his accumulation of creations are stocked away for the time being, pushed to the back where they couldn’t be seen by his father, even if the bigger bits are still in his lab. Donnie doesn’t want to see Splinter, much less actually voice a conversation with the old rat right about now. His stomach feels painfully sour all of a sudden. 

The other gently pushes back the curtain to the secluded room, seemingly acting as if nothing had happened already. Donnie is well aware of how this half-hearted apology will go, knowing it will be the exact same as it always was. He has to mentally brace himself as he leans up in an attempt to get a better view on the other. He can’t force himself to look into the other’s eyes whatsoever. Instead, he focuses on his hands, feeling small in the presence of the adult. 

“Are you doing alright,” Splinter asks, a brow raised skeptically like he already doubts whatever Donnie is going to say before he even has the time to process the question. 

“I’m fine,” he answers with a neutral expression, indifferent to the whole situation like he won’t think about it on repeat for the next five weeks. “You?” 

“Good, good, I’m doing good,” he replies with a mere huff. “Are you still angry about what happened during training the other day?” 

Donnie immediately wants to snap at how easily the rat plays it off, his throat tightening instantly. It takes a lot of self-restraint not to flail his hands, forcing down the action by taking deep breaths. Instead, he finds himself asking, “Does it matter?” He knows it doesn’t. It never has when they’ve had their spats, which have recently become far more common. 

Splinter heaves out his own annoyed sigh like Donnie were giving him shit, saying in a bluntly frustrated tone, “If you are going to be snappy about it, Purple-” 

“I  _ am _ fine,” he says in a clipped tone, instead. He can’t focus on facing the feelings that build in his chest, no, not with the other there right now. He continues to suppress the urge to flap his hands at the uncomfortable stimulation, preventing his fingers from tapping out along his arm like April had once pointed out before. It had unintentionally become something he was self-conscious about. 

“Alright, then,” Splinter decides to answer after a moment. “I trust you are coming up with a solution to your problem, then?” 

Donnie nods, despite his throat tightening and eyes blurring with unshed tears that he forces down. He wasn’t one to cry outside of meltdowns, but the feeling of impending pressure heftily weighs down his shoulders. He’s only seven, soon to be eight years old. He shouldn’t be worrying about nightmares that promise both his and his brothers’ demise, nor his father’s snaps that he’ll be the difference between saving the world or ending it, nor any of these other crocks of shit that keeps getting fed to him. He almost wishes April’s mom, Misses O’Neil, would take him in for the time being. However, he isn’t looking to burden her more than he already has. Instead, he finds himself just forcing the anger down, replacing it with a submissive sadness that he usually only reserves for his father (and occasionally Raph) alone. 

The rat only nods, telling his with a hum, “I knew you would find your own solution.” There’s no hint of pride to it whatsoever, just the subtle nod that he knew it was what was going to happen, whether Donnie wanted it to or not. “I’m off to the living room, then. Good talk, Purple.” 

That’s how he leaves, his statement hovering uncomfortably in the air as Donnie shifts around it. Its presence sends a painful pang through his chest that day. Whether Splinter is aware of it or not, he changes his relationship with his son harshly. The change is rigid and sharp, just like how Donnie becomes with his father. He seeks his approval in every way possible, but it isn’t enough. It never has been, never will be, Donnie doesn’t think. If he’s going to have a meltdown, he now seeks Mikey or Raph, aware Leo is no help at making them better and that Splinter somehow manages to make things worse nowadays than help them, only aggravating everything. All his tech doesn’t feel like enough to help retain his attention for more than a split second or get him to bat an eyelash, especially if he’s in front of the television. The soft-shelled turtle tries to pretend it doesn’t show. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been heavily considering writing a fic with Draxum parenting Donnie instead of Splinter because I'm still not over him grooming them and the episode where he traumatized the shit out of them over lying about a fish so I'm gonna make some good dad Draxum content bc I fuckin want to and crave villain-turned-reluctant-parental-figure content


	8. Chapter 8

By the next time Donnie gets a grave injury, he’s almost nine years old and he’s entirely certain that no child should have to deal with any sort of injury like his own. No, no fucking child, no  _ anyone. _ They shouldn’t have to deal with their protective layering getting bashed in, nor violently ripped off of them. There’s a dent in his front, one that’s barely edging along the lower bits of his stomach, a crater there from the pushed in metal that he needs to pry away once he gets back to his lab. He’s turned his lab into a makeshift room since it’s soundproof and he’s tired of waking his brothers up to his screaming nightmares. He also has most of his equipment in there, anyway, his room no longer actually his room and where he sleeps becoming a topic that was up for debate. 

His whole body can’t  _ not _ ache as he enters the lab, almost immediately moving to collapse on the cot. He has no idea how he got past his brothers, but he is so drastically far from asking as he lets the world spin above him. He can’t suppress the whine that leaves him as he does so, pressure on the ripped bits of his shell, a weak cry falling from his lips. At the pained yelp, a few of the emergency drones he has in beta that are mostly saved for just himself are awoken, raised from their status to come to save their creator from passing away quickly. 

Donnie only gets the view of a gentle light in his face before the dizziness he’s been feeling all afternoon takes over, body far too overwhelmed by the pain to stay awake and handle it. In a painful flurry, his eyes slip shut and he feels the whole world fade into a stark nothingness, trapping him in its hold without remorse for his weary soul. 

-

The mystic Bo preaches of his defeat, almost like it was talking to him directly. The weapon speaks in whispers that aren’t his native tongue but he miraculously understands, nonetheless, listening with an intent ear. He fixates on its morbid cal that so happily preaches of his inevitable demise if he ever properly picks the weapon. Donnie wasn’t going to if given the chance, deciding that if he ever actually does get his hands on it, he isn’t going to just  _ use it. _ He’ll probably snag it for the sake of figuring out what makes it go, but he won’t use it for its intended purpose. No, he’s far more than just a bit content upgrading all of his weapons. 

Despite knowing that there is  _ definitely _ a mystic version set in stone for his own brothers, he can’t bring himself not to attempt to bring forth upgrades for his brothers. Watching Raphs’ shell get crushed in his nightmares leads to a handful of shield experiment that he only gets yelled at for by Raph, Leo, and Splinter when they turn sour. Seeing Leo and Mikey drown leads to an attempt at making a series of floaties that he gets thrown back at him because it was apparently insulting to assume that they couldn’t swim on their own, despite Donnie knowing that they could sinse they were turtles. Seeing Splinter die in various ways leads to its own various results, some of which have reactions that range from snappy words to full-blown fights that leave Donatello more of a mess than they had before and the distance between father and son so much bigger than it had been previously. Even Mikey, who was full of neverending patience and understanding, was feeling the ungodly strain on the relationship, frowning sympathetically every single time he saw it. 

The middle child has long since learned how to suppress his meltdowns thanks to more than a few times where he has to push them down and pretend that his hands aren’t shaking and his breathing isn’t rattling his lungs painfully. He forces his emotions away, stamping them down, not letting them invade his mind. No, instead, he waits until everything becomes so overwhelming that a mental shattering is inevitable. They’re random and leave him in a numb mess after, but he can’t let himself be relaxed and melting down every single time he can. No, because his father expects so much better from him and the fear that if he truly does just let them happen like he naturally should, he’ll only get into more trouble and far off from getting anywhere near Master Splinters’ good graces. 

When he finally wakes up from his too-long nap, his body is still aching, though the ache is a soreness and his pain is a throbbing annoyance located on his stomach and bits on his shell and back. However, his body is stitched and patched up, the little bots beside him monitoring him with positive intentions. He doesn’t mind the gentle beeping from them, nor the way of them gently attaches to his wrist to watch his heartbeat with worried interest, sitting as the same exact way he programmed them to be. If not for the way his head also throbs with a migraine, he would be beyond over the moon with just ho happy he was with the realization that all of them work perfectly, having stitched and bandaged up his body. 

His battle shell doesn’t look the best from where it sits, located across the room. There’s a thick coating of dried blood on the attempt at a front cover that he was quickly deciding never to use again while the hooks on the back were no better, even if the blood had long since dried and turned flakey. It didn’t stop his stomach from dropping as he fumbled with his goggles, wanting to see the remains of what was once his lovely technology used to protect himself. 

Within just one sight, he decides he is done with an attempt at covering his front. He can usually cover his front anyway. Outside of today, he was great at it, usually perfectly on time with saving himself. Having his battle shell so violently ripped off the hooks, though? That wasn’t something he could just  _ fix, _ the dents in his shell from it painfully apparent despite the attempts to fix them. None of his brothers had been harmed so bad within the fight, just the little soft-shelled turtle whose attempts at self-protection only managed to aid in his destruction, apparently. 

It’s like a dam breaks as he finally sobs. His wounds hurt, bandaging moving as his body gets wracked with those dreaded cries and he does his best to keep the least amount of pressure on his body as he does so, so worried about the wounds that liter the prominent bits of his body. It’s almost impossible  _ not _ to irritate it in some way or another as he covers his mouth in an attempt to silence himself. It’s a pointless thing, useless. He’s so pointedly aware as he dissolves into a puddle beneath himself. He fans his face, hands flapping rapidly as he tries to calm the tears. They don’t at all stop. 

Breathing is difficult, straining his ribs and burning the thin membrane, but he can’t just  _ not, _ so he forces himself to choke down some air and not accidentally suffocate himself. 


	9. Chapter 9

Donnie has no idea what’s wrong with him today. He’s had so much energy, an amount so raw and painful. He has to physically restrain himself from flapping his hands endlessly just to vent it out before deciding that not doing it is like trying to keep a wasp alive in a jar with no holes. It was entirely pointless and didn’t even make sense, anyway. And that’s how he finds himself flapping his hands so hard that they hurt, the boy dancing along to absolutely no noise. However, the pent up energy that’s there for no reason can’t get rid of the pain that’s building within him. 

His stomach feels like it was in shreds, getting torn apart. Or, well, to be the most accurate, a section a bit lower than his stomach, closer to his crotch than anything else. It’s a bit bloated there, just a small bump that only April and her mom noticed because Donnie had pointed it out and complained that it had hurt. He hadn’t eaten anything to make his stomach hurt so bad, though, so he isn’t entirely sure what it could actually be. The nine-year-old can only get into so much trouble, after all. It generally feels disgusting in that area and he has decided very pointedly not to mess with it out of fear that something bad will happen. 

It doesn’t help that a good portion of his body hurts elsewhere, too. His chest burns when he breathes too deeply (which isn’t actually deeply at all) and his organs just generally feel like they’re rearranging their selves. He’s done a hefty amount of research on it and all he can find is that he’s dying from some unnamed illness or some form of stomach cancer. Neither idea is too appealing but he can’t find himself agreeing with the terms that are laid out for him on his phone, either. Not all of the signs are correct and he isn’t looking to go self-diagnosing on something so important and lifechanging, either. 

He finds himself snapping quickly at his brothers and father, even having a meltdown at Aprils’ after a series of pains that flow like daggers through his lower abdomen sit as a painful distraction on his mind. He doesn’t snap at the woman who has been so kind to him for so long, nor does he snap at Mikey when the younger turtle gets dropped off by Raph and Splinter because apparently he was getting on Splinters’ nerves today (what’s new?) and the man-rat needed some time to himself, or as to himself he can get with Leo and Raph around. 

Apparently, Mikey was just as full of energy, practically bouncing off the walls. April and Miss O’Neil both listen avidly to Mikey as the little turtle infodumps about whatever it was that was on his mind, most of which was the new Jupiter Jim special on television, the same one Donnie had watched with him the night before but couldn’t at all concentrate on because of the pain in his lower body and couldn’t even find it in him to poke fun at the characters like he would typically do with Mikey whenever they watched things without Raph and Leo, who would both snap at the two if they at all interrupted tv time. 

It isn’t until Donnie goes to the bathroom that he realizes something is, in fact,  _ very _ wrong. He had gone about his business, as usual, going pee and then going to wipe. However, when he wipes and finds a mixture of red and brown that also coats his thighs and is very much on his hand, too, he lets out an indignant little squeak and can already feel the tears welling up in his eyes, falling before he even has a chance to process what is going on. He has to withhold the urge to scream, instead tossing the paper in the garbage and moving to wash his hand. Immediately, he pulls out his phone, vaguely typing a smash of letters that are just barely along the lines of  _ why am I bleeding _ before pressing search and wishing that the tears didn’t blur his keyboard so badly. 

He reads article after article while doing everything in his power to stop the blood from coming out. He gets a hefty amount of  _ you’re dying _ and  _ it’s natural for a girl your age, _ both of which make him freeze up. He isn’t a  _ girl? _ He can’t contain his confusion as he reads on, so painfully aware that the blood isn’t stopping and it was way too thick to be normal blood. 

Unfortunately for the little turtle, the second option of the two fits far too perfectly to his situation. His hips feeling like they’re on fire, the ache so deep within him in places that have never hurt before, the blood that doesn’t look healthy and  _ isn’t fucking stopping _ all sitting in his face and screaming out an answer that he wishes he never had to hear or even see, to begin with. His sobs well up in his throat and make him shake with the pain of trying to hold them down. 

Then, there comes a knock on the door, Miss O’Neil’s voice gently calling, “Donnie, dear, are you alright,” after she’s made the warning noise. 

Instead of being able to let out a noise of confirmation or denial, a soft cry leaves him. It’s all she needs to hear to call out her worried warning. 

“I’m going to open the door, okay? Give me one knock if that’s bad and two if it’s okay.” 

And Donnie so genuinely loves that about her, giving two knocks with no hesitation. He thinks if it were anyone outside of her or maybe April or even Mikey, he would have told them off instantly for even attempting to open that door. However, he finds himself relaxing as he sees the woman hesitantly peek into the room, curiosity and worry embedded on such soft features. 

“I’m bleeding,” he whimpers to her, the hand holding his phone flapping pathetically, fanning his face in an attempt to get the crying to stop. He can barely see her face between his bad eyesight and the tears that invade his eyes that much more. 

”Where are you bleeding, Love,” she asks in the same soft tone she uses during his meltdowns, made to be calming and not undermining. He’s thankful for it, not sure if he can handle anything else right now. Her slight accent is comforting to him. 

He points in a vague direction of where he’s bleeding from, feeling his face blossom with red. He immediately goes into a ramble about it, confessing to her, “And I’ve been hurting a lot down there, too! And I’m so angry and upset today and Dad yelled at me after I yelled at him so I just started crying and - and Leo told me to stop being such a softshell so we got into a fight and Raph yelled at me and I cried harder so then I came here. And then everything started hurting so much worse and my chest hurts and it feels irritated and breathing hurts if I breathe too deep and touching my chest makes me want to cry. And I’ve been so hungry for all these random, gross things that would usually make me throw up, too! And it feels like someone set right here-” he makes and other vague gesture to his lower midsection before continuing, “-on fire because it’s been hurting so bad. And now I’m bleeding and it’s icky and chunky and It’s not stopping _ and - and - and -”  _

_ “Breathe, _ baby,” Miss O’Neil tells him with a soft frown, leaning down beside him. She doesn’t touch him, not just yet, but he can see she wants to. She holds up a gentle hand, which he immediately leans into, head pressing to her palm and eyes closing as tears fall down his cheeks. It isn’t hard to tell what she was going for, nor that he would kill to have a comforting hug or two right about now. She obliges, moving to press a gentle kiss to his forehead and bringing a hand up to rub gently at the scarred shell. The only places Donnie didn’t prioritize wearing his battle shell were Mikey’s room and the O’Neil apartment, though it sat in the living room, tucked away for whenever he was going to leave. 

He disolves into a puddle of sobs so quickly in her arms, the woman carefully holding him, whispering those gentle reassurances that she always knows to say to. 

Slowly, after he’s breathing properly again, she asks him, “Did Splinter ever… Get you medically checked out to find your biological sex, baby?” 

Donnie knows what she’s going to say, letting out a pained sob. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. “I - I’m a  _ boy,” _ he sobs, “Boys don’t  _ bleed down there.” _

“Some boys do,” she replies as she pulls him a bit tighter. Her touch is reassuring, comforting as she strokes the back of his head with a finger, ghosting across the bare skin, His mask had joined his battle shell a few hours ago, after all. “Boys like that, we call ‘em transgender. There are girls like that, too, girls who don’t bleed and ones who can but don’t. And there are folks in between bein’ a boy or girl that bleed down there, just like how there are folks that are neither that bleed, too.” She presses yet another kiss to his forehead. “It’s a spectrum, sweet pea. You can still be a boy and bleed, it just means a bit of a different thing than when a girl bleeds.” 

Donnie nods against her shoulder.  _ Transgender _ gets mentally marked as something to search up whenever he has some free time and isn’t mentally being held together by a parental figure. “What’d I do - do about it?” His question comes out in a hushed tone, a scared whisper. His underwear is stained red. 

“Well, first, baby, we gotta get you all cleaned up. Get you a bath, an’ I’ll teach you how to get blood out of clothes, alright?” 

He nods immediately, sniffling as he pulls away from her to strip off the little bit of clothing he has on. 

“Now, if it’s fresh blood and hasn’t dried yet, you can use cold water to wash it. Add a bit of salt on it for better and quicker results, though.” He nods along with her words. “If it’s dried, hydrogen peroxide works well. Wait for it to bubble up and sort of dry, then run some cold water through it and repeat until it’s gone.” She shows him as she does it, giving examples as he speaks, which he’s thankful for. 

After that, she ushers him into the bath with a promise to take care of his clothes and whatever else he needs, even getting him a towel. She’s there to teach him things after he gets out of the shower, too. 

“There are a few alternatives. Menstrual cups and tampons are for another day, though, okay?” he nods along once more. “However, what I’m going to talk to you about it is a sanitary napkin, or just called a pad for short, okay?” 

“Okay,” he echoes as she pulls something out of a plastic package beneath the sink. It’s wrapped in more packing, green film around it, which she slowly unwraps to show him. 

“Now, once you have it unwrapped like this, you can place it on your underwear, okay?” 

“On my underwear,” he repeats in a worried whisper. 

She nods. “Some people bleed for about a week, sweet pea. It usually doesn’t stop for a bit and this keeps from making a mess.” 

“No mess.” 

“No mess,” she echoes approvingly. “You unfold it like this,” she pulls off the film, “and place it like this,” she places it down, “and make sure it covers everything so you don’t get blood everywhere.” he nods to each bit, interested in a painful way. “That’s about it. There are different sizes and different…  _ settlings, _ I suppose, so you can have different ones for when your blood flow is heavier or thinner. This one should be perfect for you. I know it’s a bit on the heavier side, but it takes a while to get used to and figure out which size you need, but I’ll help you out as much as you can, okay? Just call me whenever you need to.” 

Donnie nods, wiping at his tears. It’s all he’s wanted for so long, just someone to  _ help him _ and not send him in blindly. She continues on with helping him, explaining things to him he never needed before. 

(When she takes them home and lets April visit the other two boys the next day, Miss O’Neil gives Splinter absolute  _ Hell _ for the whole event with no remorse, especially after figuring out that most of it had been Splinter blaming it on Donnie being a soft shell and never considering that maybe he  _ wasn’t _ a biological boy like the other three were.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WOULD LIKE TO CLARIFY SOMETHING: I have never been diagnosed with autism OR adhd, as my father is an ableist and still calls them slurs. HOWEVER, I am heavily coded towards BEING autistic and all portrayals of a meltdown or anything of that sort is similar to m own experience with what I have been calling Icky Nights and the Bad Feeling bc I don't have any other words for it. 
> 
> (YES, I am looking to get screened as apparently my mother has had sneaking suspicions of it for years but has never been able to do anything about it. NO, I have not had a chance to just yet, though.)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave likes and comments! If you particularly liked my fic, here's my Discord server!  
> https://discord.gg/eGkwayy


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